Angel Eyes Johnny D
by Wingading
Summary: Crysta's been hurt and is totally alone, but she's touched by an angel, and from then on her life turns upside-down.
1. Prologue

** Angel Eyes **  
Written By Stephanie Hickman  
November 2003  
  
Prologue - Angel  
  
Crysta ran.  
  
She ran fast but wearily down the street, simply the moon lighting her way through the dark night, a pool of spotlight on a seemingly empty and lonely stage. The wind tore through her flaxen hair, making a mess of tangles, a wild mane, and the brutal storm hit her tired face, stinging her pale cheeks. Her white dress was muddy from the fields, the lace was torn, her previously magnificent make-up a dreary smudge down her face.  
  
She couldn't tell how far she had run, only that it was never far enough. Her feet were tired, yet her heart egged her on, taking her to an unknown destination through the French hills. In any other circumstance she would be terrified to walk the deserted French countryside at night, the howling of wolves and hooting of owls around her, damp grass clinging to her ankles. But tonight was different, all she knew was to get away, to run until the pain stopped, until her heart stopped aching. She didn't know when this would be, but presumed it would happen. She hoped it would. Prayed with all her soul that it would soon.  
  
Her heels stuck in the thick mud, and each step was as a marathon, long and weary, yet full of grim determination. Rocks stuck up from the uneven path, and many times had she tripped, stumbled over the rough outcrop around her. The trees bent around her in menacing claws, and shook as if trying to reach out and grab her. She looked ahead of her path, and only saw darkness, as if the world had died along with her happiness.  
  
At the sound of footsteps behind her, she stopped abruptly, turning around, eyes wide in fear. All was dark, and there was no follower. She watched the path a moment longer, listening to the trees rustling around her, sounding like harsh whispers to her ears, before beginning her race again, perhaps a little faster and more frantic this time.  
  
Suddenly, a rock caught her ankle just right, and she was sent tumbling over, landing in a heap on the floor. She hit it with a dull thud, resounding in the quiet night. She propped herself up on her hands, her veil over her face, and tried to brush it back. As she did so, she began to cry, sitting up and looking at her hands. They were covered in blood, her own from grazing them as she fell, trying to stop her plummet. The red caught the moonlight and glinted at her, swirling as she moved her hands. She wiped them on her dress, cringing at the pain, and continued to cry. Her quiet sobs shattered the silent night, and it felt as if she were the only being left on the planet. She put her head into her bloody hands, her golden but shaggy hair falling around her face, and wished she were dead. She was good as anyway. She had no idea where she was; this part of France was unfamiliar and unwelcoming to her, and she knew she would not find her way back, at least not until morning, and the night was still young.  
  
She willed herself to get up, but could not move. Her body just would not work, too tired for her mind to command it, and she sat helplessly, wondering if this was her fate. Footsteps could be heard again, but this time she dared not to look up, in case someone really was there. The footsteps stopped, and the next moment, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She cringed from the touch, yet could not pull away, only managing to look up, snivelling still. Her eyes hardly worked, and all she could make out was a dark silhouette, shrouded in shadow. The head seemed to have a golden rim, a shine to it, surely from the moonlight, and as her eyes adjusted, she caught a glimpse of their eyes. The moon seemed to live in them, reflected at her, but they were dark, almost black, and piercing beyond belief.  
  
The man handed her a handkerchief, and she took it cautiously, wondering whom this stranger was. He didn't say anything, just smiled gently at her, and stood up. As soon as he did, car headlights appeared on the road. He turned and looked at it, and took a step back into the hedge. He looked back at her, that kind smile still on his face. "Pas le cri, Mademoiselle. Vous êtes sûr ." Don't cry, miss. You are safe.  
  
She didn't have time to take in his words, for the next moment, there car was beside her, and the door had been opened. She looked at the car and saw her friend getting out hurriedly, and glanced back at the man. He had gone.  
  
"Ai! Crysta!" her friend cried loudly, coming down next to her, clutching onto her arm. She embraced her, but when she continued to stare into space, she shook her gently. "Crysta?" "Vous l'avez vu?" Did you see him? she asked, staring at the empty space by the side of the road. "Qui?" Who? Her friend looked at her sceptically. "Il n'y avait pas qui autrement." There wasn't anyone else. She turned to look at her friend, her tears no longer in her eyes. Could it be that she had seen things? No, he had given her his handkerchief, and it was still clutched in her hands. She wouldn't let it go for dear life, and she continued to stare as her friend attempted to haul her up and into the car. Eventually her friend flung her into the car, and shut the door, leaving Crysta pinned against the window, not believing that he could have just disappeared. Her friend got in the other side, turning on the heating, and started the engine again. "Jean," she began, her voice hoarse. The car started to pull away and Jean glanced only quickly to her friend's tear stained face. "Oui?" "Croyez-vous aux anges?" Do you believe in angels? 


	2. Chapter One Judgement

Chapter One - Judgment  
  
Crysta looked out from the balcony window of her bedroom, sighing at the blinding sun in her eyes. The weather was such a contradiction to how she was feeling, and she wished she could block the sun out. Nothing made her more miserable than when the sun was shining and she was feeling blue. It was like it was doing it to spite her. "Crysta, are you sure you're ok?" came Jean voice suddenly, coming through the door. Although Jean had lived in France for a good few years, her natural English accent was as strong as ever. Crysta span around to face her, a little shocked at first, but then nodded, giving a little smile.  
  
Jean had stayed the night after taking Crysta, the trembling wreck she was, back home. They had been best friends since they had met in Lyon, a couple of years earlier, and Crysta didn't know what she'd do without her. Now she lived in Cannes, in a picturesque little house, surrounded by nature. It was everything she'd wanted her home to be, a little old fashioned on the outside, but modern in the interior. The front lawn was well kept, and bushes grew all around, flowers dotting along the flowerbeds. The windows were large, Crysta being a lover of natural light, and there was a red brick chimneystack that showed on the front.  
  
"Oui, I'm fine," Crysta replied, walking away from window and retreating to her bed. Her room was a plain white colour, light and airy. Her bed was made up from lots of white sheets, but then red satin cushions dotted all around and a red quilt that went over the top. White drapes hung from the windows, and a large mirror was hung opposite the bed on the far wall, so if Crysta sat up, she could see herself in it. The walls were just as the rest of the room, white, but there were black and white photographs all over the walls, showing little happy faces of children and smiling lovers. Her room, if you were asked to describe it, would be simple, yet stunning.  
  
Crysta slid into bed, sitting up still, the sheets tucked up around her. Her hair golden fell loosely around her shoulders, and the sun shined on it, making her seem to glow in a light of her own, no matter how bad she felt. She wore a simple white night dress, just perfect for summer. Jean, on the other hand, was dark haired, and dark eyed and stunningly beautiful in her own individual way. Her hair was always in tight curls around her face, making the perfect frame for her somewhat chubby cheeks. She would often tease Jean, calling her hamster cheeks, but then she would just retaliate with blondie, which Crysta despised. Jean's eyes were a beautiful hazel colour, and they were big and wide, seeming to search your very soul. Right now Crysta wished Jean's eyes were any other way, for at the moment, they seemed intent on eyeing her sceptically.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Jean asked her after a moment, perching on the side of the bed, still in her tartan pyjamas. Crysta played with her hands for a moment, before looking up, her eyes somewhat cold. "Non," she said quickly, turning her head to the side to avoid Jean's pitying eyes. She didn't want her pity, and she didn't need it. "What is there to say? We all know what happened." She folded her arms across her chest, refusing her eyes that were trying desperately to cry. She still had her pride. Jean shuffled up the bed gently and took one of Crysta's hands. "It's not your fault you know," she told her quietly, tilting Crysta's head to face her. "Who else's could it be? Eh?" she asked, her green eyes beginning to water, "I. I wasn't good enough for him."  
  
Jean shook her head sadly. She knew this would happen, that Crysta would start to blame herself. She had a kind of self-destruct button that could be pressed all to easily, and it was always up to Jean to sort her out. "Look, you don't need that bastard. What kind of man is he to suddenly announce he's been having an affair an hour before the wedding?" Crysta looked at her sadly, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. "He doesn't deserve a wonderful, beautiful, sweet woman like you." Jean leant forward and wiped off the tears that were rolling down her porcelain cheeks. Crysta sniffed, feeling foolish for crying. Surely all her tears were spent the night before, when she had hardly gotten any sleep from crying so hard.  
  
"I loved him." Crysta said softly under her breath, feeling fresh tears burrow through her ducts. Her body began to shake lightly, and she could slowly feel herself becoming a shuddering wreck. She wiped away her tears with her still finally manicured nails, and gave a weak and shaky smile. "Just, I don't wish to talk about it," she said, and Jean nodded slowly, accepting that her friend just couldn't bear it at the moment.  
  
She had met her fiancé, Stephan, only a year ago. Crysta's parents had warned her about Stephan. They had despised him instantly upon meeting him and told Crysta to stay away from him. When they first began to see each other she was still living with her parents. She would have to sneak out of her window in the evenings to see him, making her parents believe she was asleep. Her older sister, Marie, would cover her, understanding that her parents were often harsh and too strict, a proper Catholic French family. To Crysta, having to sneak around made it all the more exciting, and she and Stephan would laugh at the thought of what her parents would say if they found out. She was a headstrong twenty four year old, and he was a rebellious thirty old, too caught up in each other to notice what went on around them. Of course, the age difference didn't bother Crysta, but it bothered her parents greatly. Eventually though, her parents did find out, and they were furious. They cast her off, disowned her and left Crysta and Stephan to stand on their own two feet, to get a home for themselves. Luckily, Stephan's parents approved of their match, and were very well off. They bought Crysta a home, and Stephan continued to live in his own. He said he didn't want to move in with her, that he needed his freedom, and Crysta accepted that, but now she saw it as her downfall. It gave him the chance to be unfaithful.  
  
She leant over to her dressing table and plucked up the handkerchief, beginning to dab her eyes lightly, still sniffing. Jean watched her carefully. Crysta never usually used handkerchiefs. In fact, Crysta had always seemed to hate them. She'd even given her a lecture about how unhygienic they were. But now it seemed as if she didn't care and she wiped her eyes freely, clutching the handkerchief for dear life. "Where did you get that?" Jean asked, gesturing to the handkerchief in question. Crysta stopped her gentle dabbing and looked at it. "L'ange, he gave it to me," The angel she told her, smiling properly for the first time that day at the thought of him. Jean raised a well-sculpted eyebrow, looking very confused. "The angel?" "Oui." Jean shook her head, wandering if her friend had been traumatised. Crysta hardly believed in God, let alone angels. "What.angel?" she asked, not wanting to say the world. "The one on the road last night, the man." Crysta made her eyes wide, trying to make Jean see that she was telling the truth. It was no use though, and she looked as blank as ever. "At the wedding.?" "Non! Just before you found me, a man, he came and gave me his handkerchief." Jean looked at her incredulously as Crysta waved the hanky in front of her face. Crysta sighed loudly, and folded it up neatly, holding it like a parcel in her hands. "He told me not to cry, that I was safe, and then." she trailed off, feeling very foolish. She knew how ridiculous this all sounded, but she was sure it had happened. She had the handkerchief to prove it. "He disappeared."  
  
"What?" Jean leant forward and placed her hand on Crysta's temple, much to her annoyance. She pulled away, seemingly puzzled that she didn't have a fever, and Crysta gave her a withering look. "Are you sure you are not imagining things?" "No! I saw him, and he gave me this!" Crysta handed the handkerchief to Jean, and she unfolded it carefully. It was a plain white in colour, but when inspecting it, Jean found three rectangles stitched at the bottom in black, all overlapping slightly. Jean ran her hand over the neat stitching and then handed it back to Crysta who clutched it to her chest protectively. "What do those symbols mean?" Jean asked, referring to the three rectangles. Crysta looked at them carefully, her delicate brow ruffled in a frown. "Je ne sais pas." I don't know. Jean raised her eyebrow again, and then sighed, patting Crysta's covered legs through the bed sheet.  
  
"Well, we've both got time off, what do you say we go to Lyon for the weekend?" Jean asked, beginning to stand up. Crysta's face cracked into a wide smile at the thought of visiting her hometown, and she nodded briskly. "We're gonna have a good time, and we'll forget all about Stephan eh?" "Right." Crysta nodded again, mentally setting herself the task of having a good time. It would be difficult, but Crysta was never one to back down from a challenge. "Pack your stuff, I'll be in the shower," Jean told her as she came to the door. Crysta swung her legs out of bed and looked up to Jean, smiling lightly. Jean returned the smile and then went out of the room, shutting the white door behind her quietly.  
  
Crysta stood up out of bed, flexing her arms in front of her and yawning lightly. She took a few steps over to her mirror and gazed into it at her reflection. Her eyes looked a little more puffy than usual, but apart from that, she didn't look to bad, considering the tough night she'd had. She ran her hand through her hair, and immediately decided that she needed a shower. It was still slightly kinky from having it put it up in plait for the wedding, and seeing it made all the pain come flooding back. She looked into her eyes and saw tears welling again before she blinked them away. She went away from the mirror, knowing it would only make herself worse, and began to make her bed. She turned it back, rearranging all the pillows carefully, and then placed the handkerchief on top of them, making a mental note to take it to Lyon with her.  
  
She turned and made her way into the beautiful en suite bathroom, deciding she would take a shower. Her bathroom was as impressive as the rest of the house. One wall was a complete mirror with a thin shelf about three inches from the floor. All along it were toiletries and blue towels to match the colour of the walls, and there were light blue tiles on the floor. A bathtub was the main feature of the room, sunken into the floor and big enough for two. The toilet was right in a corner and on either side was a sink and a shower. If nothing good had come from her and Stephan's relationship, she still had this wonderful home.  
  
She stripped out of her nightdress, folding it carefully and placing it next to the sink on a little stool. It was no secret that Crysta was a neat freak, and she couldn't stand seeing things out of place. She started the shower and waited until it was the exact right temperature before stepping in, letting the water engulf her body. She shut the glass doors behind her and let the water do its magic, easing her aching muscles and soothing her completely. She opened her eyes as the water poured over her face and she looked at the steamed up windows. Slowly, she reached out and began to draw. When she withdrew her hand, she had drawn an eye, staring back at her. The moon was its pupil, and it was disturbingly lifelike. Crysta had taken A level art and studied art at college for two years, and it showed in her drawing. She stared at it a moment longer, and then wiped it away briskly, shaking her head. She had to stop thinking about this 'angel, otherwise some people would think her a raving lunatic. She pulled out her shampoo and began to lather up her hair, silently promising herself that this angel would leave her thoughts for the entire weekend. 


End file.
